


Out of the Light

by ratherastory



Series: Fusion 'verse [19]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-20
Updated: 2010-02-20
Packaged: 2017-10-20 02:53:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/207999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ratherastory/pseuds/ratherastory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam isn’t sure what’s real anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of the Light

**Author's Note:**

> Neurotic Author's Note #1: This is the sequel to the fic I wrote for harrigan, because I couldn’t leave poor Sam and Dean where they were, right? Right. So here’s the next bit. There will probably be more to this story later on, too. Set right after Simple Misadventure.  
> Neurotic Author's Note #2: Have I mentioned lately how the Fusion 'verse never ever goes according to plan? For the first time since I started this ‘verse, Sam decided to talk to me, so this is his POV. Therefore, it’s hella disjointed and confused. You’ve been warned. ;)  
> Neurotic Author's Note #3: Unbeta’d, as usual. These stories tend to eat my brain until I post them. It turned out a little odd, but I think it works anyway.

The light keeps breaking through. It's hard to tell, sometimes, if he's just been staring at a lamp too long, and there are bright lights, here, right above his head. Sam doesn't want to close his eyes, though, because the light gets brighter then, and he knows where it leads. When he closes his eyes the light fills with screaming. So he keeps his eyes open, and he counts the fluorescent bulbs in the ceiling fixture right above his head, shaped like tubes. He can't really see the tubes, but he knows they're there, four of them, because the fixture is a standard one, and standard fixtures have four tubes.

“Sam, honey, can you hear me?”

He doesn't recognize the voice, but it sounds nice. He's lying on his back, staring at a white-tiled ceiling, the smell of antiseptic sharp in his nose. Paper crinkles under his back, loud and unnerving. He’s freezing cold, and his arm hurts every time he breathes. He blinks, and for a second his mind is filled with screaming. He blinks again, and the screaming is gone. The only light is from the bulbs. It's a good day, he reminds himself. The only light is from the bulbs. His arm throbs, but he can't remember why it hurts this much. It's a good day, he just has to stop for a second, think about this, because it's _right there_ , he knows it.

“Sam, I have to cut your sleeve so I can take a look at your arm.”

“No!”

They're pulling at his sleeves, exposing him to the light. They're going to peel away the skin and slice through his flesh with their blades, and he can't, he _won't_...

“Sam, it's okay. It's okay, no one's going to hurt you.”

There are hands on his shoulders, trying to hold him down, and the pain in his arms gets worse. He turns his head, makes out a silhouette, and the light dims slightly. “No, wait... please. Where's Dean?”

“Your brother?”

“That would be the guy outside who was yelling at us earlier,” another voice says.

He remembers walking, looking for Dean. “I have to find... no.” He shakes his head. “I found him. It's a good day. It's a good day, I'm okay. I just —can you get him? Is he here?”

A hand smooths the hair from his forehead. “You going to let us take care of you if we let your brother in here with you?”

He nods a little frantically. “Please. Please. I'm okay, I just want Dean. Please.”

“Okay, sweetie, you hang tight.” The silhouette moves away, just out of his line of sight, and the light grows brighter again. “Let's get his brother in here. Have him sign the paperwork, or whatever.”

“You sure that's a good idea? He's pretty agitated. Might make him worse,” another voice says. Male, this time. “The other guy was kicking up a hell of a fuss when we separated them.”

“Or it could just make our jobs a whole lot easier. If he’s family, he probably has a better idea of what’s going on in Sam’s head than we do. Isn’t that right, Sam?”

He tries to raise his head, feels sick to his stomach. “Is Dean here?”

“Just a sec, sweetie, we're getting him.”

“Yeah, while you do that, I'm going to do something novel,” the male voice interjects sarcastically, “and try practising medicine. Sam,” the voice comes nearer, and the light distorts around a large blur that he vaguely recognizes as a person, “I'm going to give you something to take the edge off the pain, all right? You're just going to feel a little stinging sensation, but then it'll make everything else better.”

Something's tugging on his sleeve, trying to pull it away from his arm. The light flashes, deafening, and Sam jerks away, kicks reflexively when he feels hands closing around his wrist. Pain lances through him, white-hot and razor-sharp.

“No!”

“Vic, let go!”

The hands drop his arm almost immediately, and he pulls his hand away with a quiet whimper of pain, folding his arm against his chest so they won't be able to try again.

“Vic, you try that again and so help me I will kick you out of this room myself. Make yourself useful and go fetch his brother, and don't think you're not getting written up for this. This isn't a goddamned TV show, and you are not a star surgeon. Not for another five years, anyway. Get out before I change my mind and do something worse!”

His eyes are closed, Sam realizes with a jolt of panic. He forces them open again, finds himself staring at the ceiling again —a slightly different angle, he can tell because of the ceiling tiles. His arm is on fire, but the light isn't the same, and it's not getting worse, and that means it's real. He doesn't close his eyes again, reminds himself to keep them open. This is real. Out here is real, and whatever is behind his eyelids is just a memory. This is a good day, he reminds himself. He got up and took his meds, and he went to get coffee...

There was a truck. He remembers now, and there's as much relief as terror in the memory. There were lights, but they were just headlights, and he remembers the girl in the pink snow jacket. He knows her, the family live a few blocks away. Tilly Blake. No, that's her mother, but the name is similar. Millie. Lily.

“Lily.”

“What?” The first voice asks. This time, though the woman doesn't touch him. She must be afraid he's going to try to hit her, but he doesn't know how to tell her otherwise. “Who's Lily, Sam?”

He blinks, and there's no screaming, and she comes into focus a little bit. “Lily. There was a truck. It's a good day,” he tries to explain. “It's a good day, and so I saw the truck before it hit her.”

“You remember the accident?”

“Yeah. Yes, I remember. There was a truck, and it... it wasn't the same lights. I thought it might be, but I'm okay, it's not the same.”

He's talking too much. He doesn't know this woman, can't explain about the lights. He should be talking to Dean, because Dean knows about it, and he doesn't have to lie to Dean the way he does to everyone else. They can't know about it, can't know about where he's been, what he's done. They're done with that now.

“Where's Dean?” he asks, tries to keep his voice soft, polite. Polite is good, it makes people cooperate. “Please, I'd... I'd like to see Dean now. Please.”

“He's on his way, honey.”

It's new, this way people have of talking to him. He knows it's not the way they talked to him before, like he's a kid or deficient in some way. He doesn't mind, exactly —he knows it's because he came back broken— but there are days when he misses being talked to like a regular guy. Dean doesn't talk to him any differently, but that's Dean. Some of their friends talk to him like a regular guy, the men more than the women. The women call him 'honey' a lot more. He's drifting. He blinks, bites down on his tongue, and the pain from his arm comes flooding back before the light starts seeping in through the cracks in his mind.

A door opens and closes, less than ten feet away. He wishes he wasn't so out of it —he's supposed to be more alert than this, he thinks, but it's hard to think anymore. He smiles after a second, because Dean is here, and now things are better. Dean smells of leather and dog and slightly stale cigarette smoke, and Sam suddenly wants to go home with every fibre of his being.

“Your brother's here, sweetie.”

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean takes hold of his good hand, gently tugs on him until he's lying on his back again. “You giving the nurses here a hard time? Score any phone numbers yet?”

He rolls his eyes. “Dean.”

Dean chuckles, and Sam pretends he can't feel the worry and tension flowing right through Dean's fingertips and into him, like electricity. “Come on, you know I had to ask. How you holding up?”

He squeezes Dean's hand, lifts his head to look at Dean, but his face is too blurry to make out. “I'm okay. I want to go home.”

Dean strokes his hair, the same way he did on the way here. “Yeah, I know, but you're kind of in bad shape here, dude. You remember?”

“I remember. It's a good day.”

“That's right. So we're going to let the doctor take a look at your arm, okay? You going to let them do that?”

He shakes his head. “I don't...” he can't find the words, but Dean bends over to whisper in his ear.

“Sam, I know you don't like people messing with your arms, but they're going to drug you if you don't let them take a look, and they might try to take you away from me, lock you up if they think you're a danger to yourself. I'm going to stay right here with you, and I promise I'm not going to let them do anything to you. I'm going to stay right here, okay? I'm not going anywhere. You with me?”

Sam swallows, heels scraping a little on the thin hospital mattress as he tries to get his bearings, but Dean is holding tightly onto his hand, and so he forces himself to breathe, nods. “Yeah. Can we go home after?”

“Wild horses couldn't keep us away,” Dean promises, already sounding more relaxed. He moves back, keeps their fingers laced, and talks to the woman, who's been waiting quietly a few feet away. “He doesn’t like having his arms touched, is the problem. You go ahead and do what you have to. Just... talk us through it, okay? He won’t freak out if I’m here.”

“Sure,” the voice is all business but quiet, reassuring. “I have to cut through your sleeve, honey. We tried getting it off normally,” she says to Dean, “but there's no other way. Just hold still for me, all right Sam?”

He nods, teeth clenched. Tries to think only about Dean's strong fingers wrapped around his. “Dean, where's Perry?”

If Dean recognizes it as a way of distracting himself, he doesn't say anything about it. “She's right here. She's just too short to see over the bed, and way too well-trained to jump up and lay on your chest the way she clearly wants to. You’re going to have to spend an entire day patting her to make up for this, you know. You’ve hurt my girl’s feelings. You seeing okay, Sammy?”

He knows Dean's asking about the light. “Everything's blurry.”

“Did you hit your head, Sam?” the woman asks.

“No.”

“It's okay,” Dean says, “it's hard to explain, but it's a... psychiatric symptom.” He says the word like it leaves an unpleasant taste in his mouth, and some days Sam thinks it probably does. “I'm just making sure he's, uh...”

Sometimes, Dean needs rescuing too. “He's making sure I'm not having an episode,” he says, and flinches as the sound of tearing fabric fills the room, and cool air flows over his arm. “The light makes it hard to see. I'm okay, Dean. I'm still here.”

“Good.”

The woman —doctor, he guesses belatedly— eases the rest of the fabric away from his arm. “You're doing great, Sam. We're going to need to take x-rays, and get an orthopaedic surgeon in to consult.”

“Surgeon?” Sam can hear the sudden doubt in Dean's voice.

“Sweetie, your brother's arm was crushed by a truck,” the doctor's voice is gentle, inexorable. “Surgery is pretty much a foregone conclusion. We just have to figure out how bad it is, so we can fix it.”

They can't afford surgery. Sam isn't so far gone, hasn't been for months now, that he doesn't know that. There's no insurance scam to be run now, no faking their way out of this. They’re barely scraping by as it is. “Dean...”

“It's okay, Sammy,” he can practically hear the gears turning in Dean's mind, calculating, turning over the risks, the costs, the odds. “We'll figure something out. Right now we just have to concentrate on getting you better, okay? We'll figure the rest out afterward.”

A few moments later Dean is propping him up, helping to remove what's left of his jacket and his shirt, murmuring the same soothing nonsense he always does whenever Sam's sick or hurt, and that helps more than any of the meds the doctor gives him for the pain. Sam lets himself cling, even when they try to wheel him away from Dean on a gurney —probably going to x-ray, he thinks, which doesn't help at all.

“Whoa, there!” There's a sharp tug on his hand. “You're gonna have to slow down, sweetheart,” Dean isn't talking to him, Sam can tell. “Sammy here has a death-grip on me, and as you can see, I'm not about to win any roller-derbies anytime soon. How about cutting the crippled guy some slack and letting me keep up?”

There's a murmured apology, and the lights overhead don't flash by quite as fast. “Am I hurting you?” Sam tries to twist over on the gurney to look at Dean.

“You worry about yourself, okay? I'm fine.”

He tries to let go of Dean's hand, but Dean only tightens his grip.

“Sam, it's fine. Don't worry about it. So long as Jacques Villeneuve here keeps it under the sound barrier, that is.”

“F1, Dean? Really?”

“Deal with it, princess.”

They start moving, and Sam has to grit his teeth so as not to cry out when the vibrations from the gurney go right through his arm. All around him the voices blend into a single indistinguishable murmur and the light begins to bleed through again, flashing over his head and seeping in around the edge of his vision. Dean hangs on tightly to Sam’s hand, his voice rising a little above the others even though Sam can’t quite tell what he’s saying anymore. Knowing Dean he’s probably talking him through what’s going on, describing the hallways and the people and whatever else he can see in that odd stream-of-consciousness way that he’s always had when he’s stressed and frightened and trying not to show it.

Getting x-rays done is excruciatingly painful. The technician has to enlist Dean to position Sam’s arm so they can get a couple of different angles, and it hurts so badly Sam thinks he might pass out before they’re done. He bites down hard on the inside of his lip, concentrates on the feeling of Dean’s fingers digging into his shoulder on his uninjured side.

“You’re doing great, Sammy. Just a little longer, and then they’re going to hook you up with some much more awesome painkillers, okay?”

He shakes his head as vehemently as he can, even though the movement makes him queasy from pain. “No, I don’t want…” Painkillers will just send him back under, lower his defences until the light comes rushing in from all sides like the ocean. At least the pain is real, lets him know that he’s not lost, that he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.

“Sam!” Dean squeezes his shoulder a little harder. “You have to trust me on this. I’m not going to let anything happen to you. You’re going to be fine, we’re going to fix this, but you can’t fight us, here. Do you trust me?”

He presses his lips together, nods once, trying to make Dean’s face come into focus so he can see his expression. They’re moving again, and he’s sick and dizzy and his arm is throbbing in time with his heartbeat and he can’t keep track of anything anymore. He can’t keep his eyes open, no matter how hard he tries. There’s a sharp, brief pain in his left arm, and then everything starts to fade, washed out as the light gets brighter, louder.

 _Sam loses track of the time. There’s nothing here that lets him remember what it was like to be alive, what it was like before he fell. He remembers falling for a long time, but even that seems long ago now. There’s only one voice here, in the Cage. This is Lucifer’s domain, and even Michael’s power is as nothing, in here. This isn’t Michael’s kingdom, as Lucifer is fond of pointing out. He speaks to Sam the way he has never spoken to anyone else, his words soft and gentle and cruel, digging into mind and body and soul and twisting until Sam writhes and screams and begs. In here Lucifer grows until he’s the size of a galaxy and holds Sam cradled in the palm of his hand, bright and burning ice-cold, his frigid breath enveloping everything, covering the world with crystals that refract the light._

 _“Can you hear them?” he murmurs to Sam, pulling him close and whispering in his ear, caressing Sam’s face with his fingertips. “I had all those souls brought closer just for you, so that you can listen to them all day long. I know you didn’t do this for them –you did it for Dean, because that’s what you always do. Listen to them, Sam, because they’re all screaming for you. All for you. You did this to them. I would have let them go free, you know. They know it too. Can you hear them screaming? I wonder what would happen if I gave you to them, just for a few days. What do you think they would do, given that chance?”_

 _He shudders. It’s not the first time Lucifer has given him over to the screaming souls just on the other side of the light. There is no wondering. He knows exactly what’s waiting for him._

 _“Maybe you’d like to stay here. You’ve always been special to me, Sam. Always been my favourite,” Lucifer pets his hair, and pain sears through his head down through his spine and into his feet. “Shall I protect you? Save you from yourself? Keep you from reaping what you’ve sown? I can do that, you know. Keep you here, just like my own special pet, but then you’ll have to be very, very good for me. Can you do that?”_

 _There’s no pretence in this place. He just shakes his head with a moan that’s half-fear, half-agony, and the moan turns into a scream when Lucifer surges to his feet and begins to tear at him methodically, because that’s the punishment for disagreeing with the lord of this domain. There is no help to be had here. Michael keeps out of the way. He shields Adam from Lucifer’s wrath, and Sam is at least grateful for that, because whatever else, his brother never deserved any of this. In the brief moments of respite he sometimes gets, Sam wonders why no one ever bothered to pull Adam free._

 _“It’s because no one cares,” Lucifer confides one day, while he methodically tears Sam’s mind to shreds. “No one cares about your little brother, and I’m the only one left who cares what happens to you.” He smiles at Sam, then destroys what’s left of his mind with a promise to start again the next day._

 _When the darkness finally comes, Sam welcomes it like a mother’s embrace._

The light recedes slowly. He doesn’t remember walking this time, but the last time he thinks he walked for a very long time when he was trying to find his way out. He can’t move, can’t think, but there’s something pulling him forward, out of the light, and he tries to reach for it, to cling to it like before.

“Hey, Sam, you waking up?”

He knows the voice, but he can’t trust it. Dean shouldn’t be down here, doesn’t belong here. The whole point was to keep Dean safe. He opens his mouth, throat so dry it hurts even to try to speak.

“What level is this?” he manages to croak. He can’t open his eyes, but it’s dark here, and he’s grateful for that, at least.

There’s a murmured “Shit,” from somewhere off to the side, and he feels a hand smoothing the hair back from his face, warm and solid, the fingers slightly callused. “There aren’t any levels here, Sammy. You’re safe, okay? You’re out now, remember?” Dean says, still stroking his hair, and there’s an odd, choked quality to his voice.

“Don’t worry,” a second voice says. _Amanda_ , Sam thinks, and he doesn’t remember where he knows her voice from, but it’s familiar and it feels right. Safe. Amanda was never one of the voices before, never screamed for him, reaching through the frozen bars of the Cage. “He’s still pretty groggy, it’s not surprising he’s disoriented.”

“He was like this at the beginning,” Dean says, and Sam can hear barely-repressed tears in his voice, and he wants to sit up, tell him that it’s okay, that it was all for him anyway. He tries to reach for him, but his arms won’t lift. “You want some ice chips, Sammy?”

Something cool and wet slides past his lips, and he swallows the ice before it even has a chance to melt against his tongue. He sucks at it a little desperately, swallows as much as Dean will let him have. It might all disappear in a minute, but he’ll take what he can get.

“There’s no reason to think he’s regressed permanently,” Amanda says, and it sounds like she might have moved closer. “He’s still under the effects of the anaesthetic. We’ll just play it by ear, okay? Take it one day at a time, one hour at a time if we have to.”

“I know. I just –I don’t know if I can handle seeing him like that again. You weren’t there in the beginning, when he first got back. He didn’t recognize me, barely knew his own name… I don’t know if I can do it all over again.”

“You’re getting ahead of yourself. He was lucid before the surgery, you saw it yourself. Just give him some time.”

“Yeah, I know. I know. I just…” Dean breaks off, and he must lean forward because Sam feels the air around him move a little, and his voice comes from closer to Sam’s ear. “Hey, Sammy, you want to open your eyes for me, dude? Let me see those baby blues of yours. You want to get any of the hot nurses to pay attention to you, you’re going to have to do better than that. There you go,” Dean says approvingly, face swimming into focus as Sam forces his eyes open, and he presses a button to raise the bed a bit. “Welcome back. How you feeling, Sammy? You in pain?”

He licks his lips, queasy even from the gentle movement of the bed. “It’s okay, Dean. I got him.”

Dean bites his lip, rubs a hand over his mouth. “Yeah, I know. You did real good. Do you remember what happened? Anything?”

Sam swallows another spoonful of ice chips, watching his brother intently, because he’s going to disappear any minute, now. That’s how this works. Sometimes he can let himself imagine Dean is here, but it’s better if he doesn’t, in the long run.

“You can’t be here. I got him.” His brother makes a small, choked sound, and Sam thinks maybe he said the wrong thing. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it…” his left hand twitches, and he tries to reach for his brother, only to have his fingers smack against something cold and metallic. “I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for, I know you got him. Easy, now,” Dean catches his hand, “don’t break your fingers on the rail, moron, it’s your only working hand.”

His right hand feels like it’s weighted down with lead, and pain shoots up his arm when he tries to wriggle his fingers. “Dean?”

“Yeah, Sam.”

“Am I here?” He doesn’t know how else to ask the question, just trusts that Dean will understand and be able to answer.

Dean snorts quietly. “Yeah, Sam, you’re here. You don’t have to worry about levels anymore, okay?”

“Okay.” For a second he lets his gaze flit away from Dean’s face, and he sees Amanda standing behind him, a little to the side, hands on the railing of his bed. He must be in a hospital. “Hi Amanda,” he says, trying on a smile, and she smiles back at him, bright and wide.

“Hi, Sam.”

“You remember Amanda, Sammy?” Dean’s suddenly grinning so wide it looks like his face might split open, and Sam decides he must have done something right.

“Uh-huh.”

She grins. “I’m going to take that as a compliment. May I?” she glances at Dean, who nods and steps aside to let her come closer. “You feel up to answering a few questions, sweetie?”

“I guess. Sure.” He looks from Dean to her, then down at his arm, which is swathed in cotton batting and soft bandages, wrapped from his thumb all the way past his elbow. He doesn’t feel anything except kind of heavy, and guesses he must be on some pretty heavy-duty painkillers. “This a hospital?”

“That’s right. Good sign already. Do you remember how you got here?”

He chews on his lip, trying to concentrate. “I… no. There was light, and… I don’t remember.” He looks at Dean. “We’re not hunting anymore, right?”

He almost misses the furtive look Dean gives Amanda. “That’s right. You had an accident.”

“Did I fall?” His head hurts a little, but it doesn’t feel like when he fell.

“Okay, we’ll start simpler,” Amanda interjects. “We’ll see how much you can piece together on your own, and then we’ll fill you in, all right? Can you tell me your full name?”

“Sam Winchester.”

Amanda runs him through a series of questions, starting with his birthday and address, and getting increasingly complicated until he can’t think straight anymore. He shakes his head when her words start blending together, buzzing like insects in his mind. Fleetingly the image of a truck flickers in his mind, and he shudders. Amanda gives his knee a squeeze.

“All right, I’m done for now, I promise. You did really well, Sam. Are you holding up okay?”

“Tired. You okay?” he looks over at Dean, who rolls his eyes.

“Peachy, dude. Stop worrying about me for five minutes, would you?”

“Soon as you stop worrying about me,” Sam grins tiredly. “We going home?”

“Pretty soon. I haven’t even been out for a smoke yet. Give me a break here, would you?”

He can’t keep his eyes open. “Could always quit.”

“Funny. Get some sleep. I’m going to have a cigarette and leave you in Amanda’s capable hands while I talk to your surgeon about all the new complications in our lives. Good thing we thrive on adversity, right Sammy?”

There’s a twinge of guilt. “Sorry.”

Dean pokes him gently in the ribs. “Joke, dude. Your sense of humour sucks,” he says, and Sam snorts.

“You’re just not funny.”

“I’m hilarious. Not my fault you have no taste.”

“Dean,” Amanda interjects, “why don’t you go on? I’ll wait here. The sooner you go, the sooner you’ll be back. Go on,” she nudges him. “I promise I won’t leave him until you get back.”

“Right. Sit tight, Sammy. I won’t be long.”

Sam pushes himself upright for a moment. “Will we go home then?” He doesn’t want to stay here, finds himself longing for their little house with its slightly oddly-shaped rooms, mismatched furniture and the pervasive smell of dog.

“They can take better care of you here, Sammy.”

“I want to go home with you.”

The light’s too bright here, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t want to worry Dean any more than he already is, but his brother’s always had a weird sixth sense where he’s concerned. Dean pauses, the look on his face oddly wistful. Then the moment passes and he shrugs and nods.

“All right. The minute I’m sure you’re okay, we’ll go straight home.”

“Promise?”

His brother smiles, and reaches over to give his hand one last squeeze before leaving. “I promise.”


End file.
